Need to Know
by SabaceanBabe
Summary: Claire stared at her hand, mesmerized.


Title: Need to Know

Author: SabaceanBabe

Rating: PG

Word count: 811

Spoilers: for Six Months Ago

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"That's healed real nicely."

Her father's words seemed to rattle around and around in her head as Claire stared at her hand, mesmerized. At the smooth skin, not a mark, not the slightest discoloration to show where just two days ago, jagged pieces of glass had been pulled from the muscle below. One piece, larger than the rest and shaped like a hook, had to be cut out it was lodged so deeply. The doctor had warned Claire's mother that the tendons had been badly damaged and that Claire would likely need weeks, maybe even months of therapy once the wound healed.

"Claire-bear?" Her father's voice was filled with concern as he again took her hand in both of his. He turned it over and brought the palm, which had sustained the most damage, in for a closer look.

It didn't hurt at all, had stopped hurting hours ago, after Mom had changed the bandage. Her mother, too, had remarked on how well it was healing. At the time, she had been unwilling to look at it herself – it had been pretty disgusting when the doctor had put about a half-dozen stitches into it – so Claire had just taken Mom's word for it. But now she couldn't stop staring at the smooth, unscarred skin.

Her father watched her, an unreadable expression on his face. Claire forced a smile. "I'm okay, Dad. It's just… well, I really thought it would take a lot longer to heal." That was an understatement – the doctor had advised the healing process would take at least a couple of weeks. She flexed her fingers, something that had been excruciating just yesterday. Not even a twinge of discomfort.

Her dad's face cleared. "I'm sure it looked a lot worse than it was," he observed.

Claire blinked. Had he even _talked_ to Mom? Eight stitches! She frowned. Eight ugly, stiff black stitches. Stitches that weren't the kind that dissolved with time, that weren't there now.

She scooped up the bandage from where she'd put it on the bookcase. If the stitches weren't in her hand anymore, then they must be in the bandage, right? They couldn't just disappear. Things like that didn't happen in real life. A voice in her head reminded her that wounds needing eight stitches didn't heal without a trace overnight, either, but she ignored it.

Squishing the bandage into a ball, Claire said, "I guess I don't need this anymore." Smiling, she lobbed it overhand into the wastebasket beside her desk.

"I thought you were a cheerleader now, not a basketball player," her dad quipped as he watched the bundle of gauze drop smoothly into the container.

Claire bounced once on the balls of her feet, raising both hands into the air. "Two points. Nothing but net!"

Chuckling, her dad turned to go. "All right, sweetheart. I'll leave you to it." He paused and his expression turned serious. "I love you, Claire-bear."

She shot him a quizzical look. "I love you, too, Dad."

His eyes remained on her for a second more before he pounded a fist once lightly on the doorjamb and then he was gone.

Waiting until she heard him talking to her mother in the kitchen, Claire dashed over to the wastebasket and snatched the bundle of bandage out, shaking pencil shavings from it. She spread out the rough gauze and the soft cotton batting on her bedspread and switched on her bedside lamp. All eight stitches were there, stuck to the cotton in roughly the same line as they had been in her hand. Each one was a little loop, as though they'd been spit out whole, rejected by her body.

Claire traced a finger over the palm of her hand, following the lines where the stitches had been. "Nothing," she whispered. "That isn't possible."

"Claire, honey?" her mother called from the kitchen, accompanied by the bang of a pan on the stove. "Could you come here a minute?"

She hurriedly gathered up the mess on her bed and tossed it back into the trash. "Be there in a sec," she called, but she stayed where she was for a moment longer, her eyes trained on the bears her father had brought her over the years, but she didn't see them.

A plan formed in her mind. Zach. He was always talking to his friends about being a great filmmaker someday; he even carried a video camera around with him everywhere. She'd talk to him, draft him into recording her healing after an injury. Because this wasn't the first time it had happened over the last few months, just the most spectacular. And each time she healed, it was faster and more complete.

There was something wrong with her. She didn't know what to do about it, but she did know that she needed to know more…


End file.
